


Formidably Illuminated

by temperamental_mistress



Series: A Shower of Sparks [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Canon Era, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:37:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7296133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/pseuds/temperamental_mistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Will you be joining me for our usual match?” Small and soft-spoken though the poet might be, he was as well-versed in savate as in poetry, and Bahorel had come to find him an admirable sparring partner.</p><p>“Not today. I have business to attend to before the opera tonight.” He smiled apologetically as he tucked away his pen and ink. “Perhaps Grantaire will oblige you? I doubt he has any plans.” </p><p>Bahorel looked across the room to find Grantaire grinning smugly at a fuming Enjolras. The blonde man leaned against the table, palms pressed so hard against the tabletop that it listed toward him, threatening the stability of a wine bottle. From so far away, Bahorel could not make out their words, but the emotions behind them were clear enough. It was apparently that time of the week when Grantaire inevitably pushed too far, and Enjolras’s patience ran out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Formidably Illuminated

The café Musain’s back room was largely empty in the early afternoon, but for a few scattered bodies attending to business before they went their separate ways. Bahorel let his gaze wander as he considered his own departure. Grantaire, already well into his second glass of wine, was observing Enjolras as he gave Feuilly directions. The workingman had his cap on, and would soon be on his way. Combeferre was seated in the corner of the room, proofreading something meant for the printer, no doubt. At last, Bahorel returned to his own table, where Prouvaire was composing a poem of some sort. He looked up immediately, as if sensing that he was being watched.  
  
“Have you met Courfeyrac’s new roommate?” He let the ink from his pen bleed into his work, paying it no mind as the stains ran over his writing.  
  
“Not yet, but I have heard enough about him from Bossuet and Courfeyrac that I feel as if I have.” Bahorel leaned back in his chair, watching the poet with amusement. “He sounds like a reasonable fellow, if a bit lacking for common sense. Bossuet was quite sure he would have gone on living in that cab had Courfeyrac not shown up.”  
  
“Hmm.” Prouvaire lifted the sheet of paper, examining the ink stains as another might examine tea leaves. Apparently, he found some meaning there, for he set it down a moment later and added a few lines in the remaining blank space on the page. “Is he Sparked?”  
  
“No more than you or I, but he is a friend to the cause, or Courfeyrac would never have taken him in.”  
  
“Courfeyrac will bring him around in good time, then,” Prouvaire declared, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the ink from his fingers.  
  
Bahorel smiled to himself. Courfeyrac had been the one to introduce him to the group, to convince the others that his lack of spark should not be the measure by which they judged him. While he had connected himself with a number of other groups across Paris, Bahorel was certain that he might never have gained the trust of Les Amis without assistance.  
  
He looked back to Prouvaire, now gathering up his work, “Will you be joining me for our usual match?” Small and soft-spoken though the poet might be, he was as well-versed in _savate_ as in poetry, and Bahorel had come to find him an admirable sparring partner.  
  
“Not today. I have business to attend to before the opera tonight.” He smiled apologetically as he tucked away his pen and ink. “Perhaps Grantaire will oblige you? I doubt he has any plans.”  
  
Bahorel looked across the room to find Grantaire grinning smugly at a fuming Enjolras. The blonde man leaned against the table, palms pressed so hard against the tabletop that it listed toward him, threatening the stability of a wine bottle. From so far away, Bahorel could not make out their words, but the emotions behind them were clear enough. It was apparently that time of the week when Grantaire inevitably pushed too far, and Enjolras’s patience ran out. Sure enough, within a minute, Enjolras had stormed off to join Combeferre. The grin faded from Grantaire’s face, and he returned to his wine.  
  
“I imagine some time out in the open air will give this storm a chance to settle,” Prouvaire said. “I recall that the gym we visited last was friendly to Sparked boxers.”  
  
“So it was,” Bahorel mused, offering a distracted farewell to the poet. Standing, he crossed the room to Grantaire’s table. He considered the man for a moment, unsure of the best approach to take. The dark circles beneath his eyes were impressive, and did nothing to add to his features. His slouch made him seem almost part of the table, his earlier grin replaced with a well-practiced scowl.    
  
“I’m in the market for a sparring partner,” Bahorel began.  
  
Grantaire waved him off without bothering to look up. “I’m sure you’ll find one elsewhere. Leave me be.” He emptied the last of the bottle into his glass.  
  
“You can’t drink your magic away.”  
  
This, at least, earned him a glare. “Says the man with no spark.”  
  
“Says Combeferre, actually. I asked him once.” Bahorel shrugged, “I tend to assume he knows what he’s talking about.”  
  
Grantaire rolled his eyes and leaned his head against a hand, “Do you mean to pester me all afternoon?”  
  
“Only until you agree to box with me.”  
  
“Then you might as well pull up a chair.”  
  
Bahorel watched the man for a long moment as he was pointedly ignored. He followed Grantaire’s gaze to Combeferre’s corner of the room, where Enjolras had seated himself with his back to them. Contained and controlled though his gestures were, Bahorel still spotted a stray spark or two as he spoke with the ever-patient medical student.  
  
Bahorel turned back to Grantaire, “Some time apart might help the air to clear.” The dark haired man did not respond, taking another sip. “I know of a gym that’s _safe_.” He emphasized the word so Grantaire would be sure not to misinterpret the meaning.  
  
At first, Grantaire continued to ignore him, eyes locked on Enjolras’s back. He had opened his mouth to offer another suggestion when Grantaire turned to look at him. “You’re certain?”  
  
“The owner is Sparked. Saw it with my own eyes.”  
  
With a great sigh, Grantaire rose. “Let’s go then.” He only looked back once.

 

* * *

  
  
They did not speak as they walked the streets, but Bahorel continued to observe the signs of defeat that Grantaire carried in his every feature. Was he always so dark after a disagreement with Enjolras? Bahorel couldn’t recall having ever paid enough attention to notice. He supposed it was difficult to see anything when Grantaire insisted on standing in Enjolras’s shadow.  
  
Upon reaching the gym, there was the customary moment of discomfort until Bahorel could prove the place was safe. It pained him to know how careful his friends had to be in their everyday lives. The owner greeted them warmly, however, and upon seeing his light, Grantaire was reassured.  
  
It was only when they took up stances opposite one another, fists raised, that Grantaire’s posture straightened, and some of the shadow disappeared from his face. Bahorel gave a salute, inviting his new partner to make the first move. The first punch was a slow, obvious one. It would take time to adjust to each other.  
  
“Prouvaire and I spar regularly, you know,” Bahorel took a swing that Grantaire hardly had to move to dodge. “You should join us.”  
  
“The man’s half your size,” Grantaire gave him a doubtful look, nearly landing a blow at his left shoulder.  
  
Bahorel stepped back, “And he yet he beats me with alarming consistency. It’s quite the sight.” He struggled to find the rhythm in the fight. It was stilted, hardly worthy of being called a proper match. Grantaire’s half-hearted punches were easy to avoid, but the man appeared to have some extra sense that kept him from receiving any blows of his own. He was keenly aware of several sets of eyes watching them, amused by the pathetic display.  
  
“No need to pull your punches,” Bahorel said at last, when neither of them had even broken a sweat after several minutes.  
  
“You couldn’t take them,” Grantaire continued his approach as before.  
  
“Try me.”  
  
Something shifted, and suddenly the motions felt more like dancing than boxing. Grantaire’s every step, every punch was smoother and more coordinated than before as he rose to meet Bahorel’s challenge. Avoiding blows became a task all its own, leaving Bahorel almost no opportunity to reply. He quickly found himself distracted by a light at the edges of his vision. He tried to blink it away, but the glow around Grantaire persisted, and seemed only to grow brighter with every passing moment.  
  
Bahorel’s gift was a peculiar one. He had been assured on several occasions that it was unusual for someone without spark to see light in others. To be fair, he could not always make it out clearly. Enjolras was easy to see — the man burned as bright as the midday sun. He could only imagine how much brighter their chief appeared to someone with the ability to see properly. Every now and again, Bahorel found that he could make out a faint glow from others in their group, but it was usually when they were already loosing sparks from their hands. The rest of the time, most Sparked appeared as dim to him as Prouvaire or Joly.  
  
Sober, and with his magic to guide his steps, Grantaire burned nearly as bright as Enjolras himself. Bahorel held his breath at the sight of it. The man was usually a complete shadow, his light obscured by drink. Now, Bahorel did not question his sight for even a moment. A steady light radiated from Grantaire’s every feature, from the lopsided grin now spread across his face to the tips of his dark curls.  
  
Without warning the air rushed from his lungs, and Bahorel found himself doubled over and coughing. It took a long moment to register that Grantaire had landed a punch to his gut.  
  
“Sorry,” Grantaire muttered, dimming only slightly. “I did warn you.”  
  
Bahorel straightened as his breath slowly returned to him, unable to look away from the formidably illuminated stranger standing before him. Something in his chest tightened, and he knew it was unrelated to his protesting lungs. He grinned, “It takes more than that to bring me down.”  
  
Grantaire returned the expression with a smirk, “Prouvaire must be quite the fighter then. Perhaps I’ll join you after all.”  
  
“Another round?”  
  
“Only if you promise to actually put up a fight this time,” Grantaire’s smile was radiant.


End file.
